The Legend of Mickey Tussler

by Nappi, Frank;

  He peered into Boxcar for the sign. His first delivery was feckless, a flat fastball that just glided across the middle of the plate. It was fired right back at him, narrowly missing his head, and scooted into center field.

  “Mickey,” Murph called, continuing to watch the desperate affectations of his wounded pitcher. “Run down to the pen with Matheson and Barker and loosen up.”

  The next batter caught a similar pitch right on the sweet spot of his bat, sending a frozen rope to third. The ball appeared destined for the left-field corner. But Woody Danvers, still riding the high of the previous half inning, lay out, full extension, and snared the smash in his web just at it passed by.

  “Oh, holy shit!” Murph bawled. “Matheson? Matheson? Would you move your ass down there?” he yelled desperately. Sanders was out of gas. Murph knew it. The Rangers knew it. They were all licking their chops and swinging from their heels. Even the crowd knew it, and a smattering of boos and jeers began cascading onto the field. Murph stretched his glance to the bullpen. Matheson knew what he wanted and shook his head and held up five fingers. Murph cursed and crossed himself again.

  The next batter sent two long foul balls soaring into the bleachers before lining a sharp single to left. That was followed by a scorcher to right. The runners each advanced one base, loading the bags for the Rangers’ third- and fourth-place hitters.

  Murph’s heart sank. “Time!” he called. He hung his head and made the long walk to the mound. “Like some goddamned Abbott and Costello routine,” he muttered under his breath.

  He hated these trips to the mound more than anything. His spirit always labored, buckling beneath the weight of ruthless castigation that would come from the fans, the local press, and at times his own team.

  “Left ’im in too long” or “Never should have started him to begin with” were only two of the comments he imagined being bandied about. And as if the concern over their words weren’t enough, he lamented over what he was going to say—that desperate search for the pithy sentiment that would preserve the dignity of his pitcher and at the same time extricate himself from any further scrutiny or criticism over why he had stayed with him so long.

  On the way out, he measured his gait, mindful of the myriad superstitions attached to stepping on the sacred lines of chalk. So, he would walk gingerly, methodically, like one who was negotiating the dimpled, slippery side of a fallen tree trunk stretched across a raging river. His focus was clear—just get to the other side. And although he tried to prevent it, his eyes always strayed from the intended destination, wound up flirting with the many faces in the crowd, rendering him lost amidst the kaleidoscope of images and the shrill, admonitory voices filtering through the fitful abstractions. It was then, at that moment, when he always felt the sweat beading on his back. Each step he took stoked the fires of vexation even further and seemed to amplify the discord raining down on him.

  “You lousy bum! Go back where you came from! You stink so bad you could knock a crow off a shit wagon!”

  These sounds and sights swirled turbulently and always seemed to him not simply the atmospheric conditions of a ballpark in flux but the rushing of the flames of hell. It never got any easier. He often mused that one day, when he arrived at the hill after conquering the proliferation of pitfalls that always accompanied a pitching change, the earth would laugh sardonically and just open up and swallow him whole.

  “You gave it your best, kid,” he said to Sanders, patting his back. “It’s okay. Hit the showers.” Sanders hung his head and departed without a word. Then Murph made a deft motion with his right arm, signaling to the bullpen.

  Mickey bounded out from the pen to a faint, inquisitive buzz that insinuated itself into the ear of every person in the park. Murphy was at it again. Another reclamation project. He was the champion of the lost cause. A long list of misfits and has-beens trailed in Arthur’s wake. He’d been quiet of late, stopped courting this quixotic pie-in-the-sky philosophy after his last effort ended so bitterly. Scooter Moran, the Athletics’ young, talented third baseman who’d ascended the amateur ranks like a phoenix, was left for dead after he was beaned in the left eye by Grover Daniels.

  “Never be the same,” they all said. “Nobody ever is.”

  Murph thought differently. “I know the A’s let Moran go. I know. But I’m telling you, Mr. Dennison, I can feel this one. Really. He’s gonna be fine. Let’s sign him.” Scooter was grateful to Murph, but all the gratitude in the world could not resurrect his moribund career. He batted a meager .138 in his first twenty-one games with the Brewers. The nineteen-year-old phenom from Mississippi had felt the heat from both the fans and the press.

  So did Murph. He had left the struggling third baseman in during some pivotal moments, and in each instance Scooter’s failure translated into failure for all the rest of them. Dennison was just about to drop the hammer on both of them when Scooter disappeared. Just up and left. Cleared out his locker one night. Walked in with tears in his eyes and a bag draped over his shoulder. It took him less than ten minutes to pack his dreams into a tan gunnysack. Then he caught a train back home.

  Murph was crushed. “Jesus Christ! This is the thanks I get? Not even a goddamned note? A thank-you?” It took a while for the sting of failure and disappointment to abate. Most thought for sure Murph had finally learned his lesson. But old habits die hard. So when the crowd saw Mickey entering the game, hat askew, jersey stretched uncomfortably across his preposterously large frame, they only gasped momentarily, then rolled their collective eyes and sighed.

  A small, impromptu gathering took place at the mound underneath an uncertain sky: Murph, Boxcar, and now Mickey. Mickey took the ball and smiled, his fleshy cheeks dimpling. Murph raised his eyebrows and smiled back. Mickey’s eyes looked directly into Murph’s, so intensely, and with such fervor, that Murph could see the little dark flecks, illuminated by intermittent flashes of sunlight, in the colored part around the pupils. The boy was so pure. Inside Murph’s head, a cyclone was at work. He wondered, as he had the previous three innings, if the time was right.

  “Well, Mick, she’s all yours. Just relax. Relax. Throw the ball right to Boxcar’s glove.”

  “Uh-huh,” Mickey replied, thinking thoughts about baseball and farmhouses and the anthill he had discovered only moments before.

  “That’s right, kid,” Boxcar added. “Nothin’ to it. Like shootin’ fish in a barrel. Just listen to me—hit the targets, and we’ll be fine. Got it?”

  “Yup. Yup, Mickey can do that.”

  The fickle sun came out once again, this time for good, tinting the late-day sky a pinkish orange. Murph returned to the dugout, cyclone still raging, and Boxcar squatted behind the plate. Mickey stood on the rubber, feet dangling awkwardly over the dirty white stripe, and peered in at Boxcar.

  “Okay, Mick!” he yelled. “Just give me a few warm-ups here.”

  Mickey nodded confidently as if he had been putting out fires like this all his life. He smiled again and pounded the ball into the pocket of his glove. But before he could release his first toss, his eyes wandered to the frenetic crowd, and a strange, hunted look fell across his face. Then came the nervous rocking, back and forth, back and forth, like a pendulum. Boxcar stood up.

  “Mickey,” he yelled, waving his arms over his head. “Here. Look here. Just here. At me. Come on now. Hit the glove. Toss me the ball. Right here.”

  Mickey blinked hard. His nostrils flared for a second and he ran his tongue across his lips. Then he moved his back foot off the rubber and arched his back, a spasmodic gesture punctuated by the peculiar rolling of his arms, and fired the ball at Boxcar. The ball popped in the catcher’s glove like a pistol shot, reverberating through the stands. The report of Boxcar’s glove silenced the bristling crowd, leaving them speechless and wide-eyed beneath the pall of improbability.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  The sound was deep and leaden, like heavy stones falling to earth.

  Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

&n
bsp; Seven tosses, each one drawn to Boxcar’s glove with the accuracy of an archer’s arrow. The sound engendered great interest among spectators and players alike. All eyes were fixed on the burly pitcher. Even the ushers and peanut hawkers suspended their business to take a gander at a most extraordinary event.

  The next Ranger batter strode to the plate with a curiosity that supplanted his desire to tie the game. Who was this kid, swaying side to side, rolling his arms like some kind of vaudeville magician? How could this freakish farm boy who looked more like something that should be featured at a corner carnival than at a baseball game throw a ball with such velocity, such accuracy?

  It was all picture-perfect. The young, unknown phenom, riding in on his white horse to save the day—all in front of an eager crowd. What could have been better?

  Yes, it was all perfect, until the batter stepped to the plate, disrupting the harmony of the dream and diverting Mickey’s attention from Boxcar’s glove. There he was. Just him against the batter. It was strange, he thought, that he was out there alone. In his overwrought condition, it was more than he could handle. All at once he looked oddly uncomfortable, as if he had already digested what his senses and intellect could not yet grasp.

  Mickey’s first pitch was a dart that whistled by both the batter and the catcher, soaring about two feet above the intended target and coming to rest up against the backstop.

  “Like a goddamned frog in a frying pan,” Matheson cried. “Has the kid even pitched to a live batter yet?”

  Murph cringed in the dugout, his hopes collapsing as the runner from third scampered home with the tying run. Boxcar retrieved the ball and walked it back out to Mickey. “Relax kid, okay? Relax. Nice and easy. Just play catch. Warm-ups, remember? Just like that. Okay?”

  “‘Couched in his kennel, like a log, with paws of silver sleeps the dog,’ ” Mickey recited.

  Boxcar’s eyes narrowed. Mickey was withdrawing fast. His mind wandered to his mom and the farm and to the black, triangular spot just behind Oscar’s right ear.

  “Mickey? You okay?”

  The boy was miles away.

  “Come on now, Mickey. Take the ball.”

  Mickey was unresponsive. Boxcar looked into the dugout, in Murph’s direction, but the manager’s face was expressionless. Then the frustrated catcher raised his eyebrows and held up both palms to the sky. But Murph did nothing. Said nothing. He just stood there, shoulder propped awkwardly against the dugout wall, thinking about all the times his life had forked, and how each path he’d chosen had led to this sort of silent desperation.

  “Murph!” Boxcar shouted from behind his mask. “What’s up?”

  The catcher stood on the mound, hands resting impatiently on his hips, waiting for a suggestion, some encouragement, or just a word or two on which he could hang his frustration. “Hey,” he continued to shout. “What are we doing here?”

  Murph saw Boxcar, perplexed, and the image became, all at once, mesmerizing and impenetrable. The longer he looked, the more unreal it became until he felt a sense of panic, as if he needed to shake himself out of some alien transfixion.

  “Just, eh—just keep talking to him, Box,” he yelled back, swallowing hard. “Keep talking to him.”

  Boxcar shook his head and frowned. He nourished a constant stream of encouraging thoughts in his head, ever mindful of the grave situation, but whenever he said any of them out loud, it just seemed forced and ineffectual. “Come on, Mickey,” he implored again, this time placing the ball firmly in Mickey’s glove. “Just throw the ball. You can do it. You are the best out here.”

  A slight buzz came from the stands, as if a hornets’ nest had been disturbed, yet most of the people suspended any further action and ultimately fell still and silent, wetting their lips while studying the erratic behavior unfolding on the pitcher’s mound.

  After a lot of posturing and moving of dirt with restless spikes on the mound, the umpire broke up the exchange. “Let’s go, fellas. Let’s play ball.”

  Boxcar returned to the plate. Mickey moved some more dirt around in front of the rubber, then reluctantly placed his feet across the white stripe. He brought his hands together at his waist, rolled his arms, reared back, and fired. The pop of the catcher’s glove resonated throughout the stands, followed by a collective gasp and then the umpire’s call.

  “Strike one!”

  Boxcar grimaced and shook his left hand. He returned the ball to Mickey with his right. “Attaboy, big fella! Keep firing.”

  Mickey threw four more times, and although each delivery “popped” the catcher’s glove, they all fell outside the strike zone.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ!” Murph muttered under his breath. “Another walk. The bases are filled again.”

  Boxcar showered Mickey with all sorts of clichéd encouragement, and the young pitcher continued to roll his arms and deliver. But he could not place the ball where Boxcar wanted. Eight more balls out of the strike zone, and the Brewers found themselves down by two runs.

  “Time!” Boxcar yelled. He flipped up his mask and began to make his way back to the mound, but was suddenly arrested by a stern admonition from the dugout.

  “Boxcar, you get your sorry ass back behind the plate. Enough already. Let the kid alone. He’ll be fine.”

  Boxcar sighed and pulled his mask down over his mouth. He crouched back down behind the plate, baking in the unrelenting heat. The day had been just too long. His knees hurt and his right elbow felt as if someone had taken a hammer to it. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, and one drop found its way into his mouth when his lips formed the words nobody could either see or hear.

  “Goddamned asshole.”

  Mickey peered into the rounded glove. He licked his lips, rolled, and fired at the next batter.

  “Strike one!” the umpire announced.

  With the ball back in his glove almost instantly, Mickey rolled and fired again.

  “Strike two!”

  The crowd exploded in applause and whistles, intoxicated by the popping leather and the umpire’s approval. Everything in the tiny ballpark clicked into slow motion, creating a dream state in which the secret thoughts and longings of all witnessing the spectacle were revealed. This wonderland blundered against familiar disappointments until, little by little, it again became a scene of real life, with people screaming and applauding with rabid expectation.

  “Come on, Mickey!” some of them exhorted from the bleachers. “Go get ’em.”

  Mickey seemed unphased, unemotional as ever. He took the ball, banged it in his glove two times, rolled his arms, and fired.

  “Ball one!”

  The disappointment did nothing to thwart the crowd’s excitement. They cheered and whistled and stamped their feet until the next pitch was thrown.

  “Ball two!” screamed the umpire.

  A palpable release of air all around the park was followed by a nervous whispering. Boxcar pumped his fist with dogged optimism; Murph paced and lamented to Matheson as the crowd watched through slightly parted fingers.

  “Ball three!”

  All the euphoria yielded suddenly to a cold probability. The Ranger batter stepped out of the box and smiled, banging his spikes, secure in the belief that something good was coming. Up two runs already; full count; bases loaded—he was sitting pretty. The entire Brewers team sagged a little, aware of the same reality. Woody Danvers was the first to approach the mound, followed by McGinty and then Boxcar. The threesome formed a half circle around the struggling pitcher. At close range their faces showed the tension.

  “Come on now, Mickey,” Danvers demanded. “This ain’t no joke here. Stop screwing around.”

  “Back off, Woody,” McGinty answered. “That ain’t gonna help.” Then he turned toward Mickey. “Come on now, buddy. Burn it down the pipe. He ain’t swinging.”

  Boxcar was more guarded. He watched Mickey’s eyes. They were glassy and skittish. The pitcher’s stomach felt sick. Boxcar could see it. The other two went back to their positions
, satisfied that their words had altered Mickey’s spirits. Boxcar remained a moment longer. Then he offered some simple encouragement: “Mick. It’s just a game.”

  The sky was filled with roiling clouds driven by a stiff wind that slipped into the stadium through concrete walkways, stirring up a storm of hot-dog wrappers and discarded box scores from the morning’s sports section. Mickey, unnerved by the sudden squall, stepped off the rubber once or twice and swatted nervously at the heavy air.

  “Okay, Mick,” Boxcar yelled from behind the plate. “Come on now. Nice and easy.”

  Mickey paused for a long interval, trying to collect the varied thoughts germinating in his mind. Three balls and two strikes; fire it in there; Murph’s frowning; wind in my face; six rows of apples, five deep; what’s Oscar doing; my stomach hurts.

  “Come on, Mick!” Boxcar yelled again. “Here we go.”

  Mickey stepped gingerly to the center of the rubber. His eyes caught the batter’s arms, big and trunklike, hanging over the inside half of the plate. Mickey slid his feet along the white stripe, finally coming to rest some five or six inches left of his initial spot. He made a slight sound with his lips, as if he had just spit out a tiny fleck of dirt or a watermelon seed, then began his delivery. With arms in full motion, he leaned back, gave a violent push with his back leg, and fired the ball directly at Boxcar’s mitt. The red laces sliced the air and hissed angrily as the ball rocketed toward the batter, Mickey’s eyes wedded to its path like those of a mother bird who had just pushed her last baby from the nest. He followed its flight the entire way, willing it to its intended destination, blinking only when the white sphere disappeared in the soft, brown leather folds waiting patiently.

  “Ball four!”

  Mickey was motionless. The batter clapped his hands in approval as another run crossed the plate.

  From the bench, Murph saw his dream begin to wane.

  “What now, Skip?” Matheson asked, chewing on the end of a whittled piece of wood. “You want me to go get ’em? He’s just spinning his wheels. Can’t see the point of leaving him out there. He’s about as much use now as a yard of pump water.”